“Nothing,” I say. But it’s too late. Ruth’s face pops under the rim of the table, one eyebrow raised in annoyance.

“Get up,” she says. “You’re being embarrassing.”

I’m about to zip up my camera bag and crawl back into my chair, but then I stop. I want this picture, even if it’s weird. Maybe I can best capture my experience of this place from under the table, and if so, it’s worth being a little strange. Photography is about looking at things from different angles, isn’t it? I think about what Eddie said about Vincent van Gogh. It’s already too late to stop Ruth from rolling her eyes at me, but maybe she’ll see the picture on my Instagram and see what I was going for. See how fun this shot could be. Maybe.

So I clear my throat and hold tight to the leather strap of my camera bag. “I will in a second,” I say.

Ruth groans and goes back to her beignet.

I match my camera’s settings to the dim café light. Then I spin around, looking at all the shoes and feet jostling and tapping in the crowd around me.

Ruth’s shoes are the closest to me. They’re an old pair of black Converse, thrashed, a tear in one side, and they’re dusted with a sprinkling of powdered sugar across the toes. It’s a test of my camera’s focus features, but I aim it at that sprinkling of powdered sugar. There are red sandals and blue tennis shoes and fifty other colors in the background, and the lights above reflect in the shine of the floor. The focus works, and I kind of love the framing.

Click.

The shoes are not new. The floor isn’t, the place isn’t, not really. But something going through my mind feels new and it takes me a moment to pin it down. Ruth got frustrated with me, snipped at me a little bit, and I did my own thing anyway. That? That’s pretty new.

I look at the screen, at the picture I just took. It’s weird and I love it. I love it, outside of what anyone else might say or think. If nothing else, when people scroll through the Café du Monde geotag on Instagram, mine won’t be at all what they’re expecting.

I’ll call it “Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes,” Paul Simon, 1986.

CHAPTER SIX

Ruth’s iPod has become her comforter. This morning I saw her listening to the Interstellar soundtrack. Great soundtrack, but not a good sign.

I had hoped the beignets and colorful city would help, but maybe they didn’t. Maybe that’s a temporary magic. I wish I knew what would help. What she needs. What she’s thinking. I’ll keep an extra-careful eye on her today.